


The Water's Lullaby

by hilaryfaye



Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: M/M, Merfolk AU, Suicidal Thoughts, mermaid au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 09:06:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hilaryfaye/pseuds/hilaryfaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Quickand Week, Day 4</p>
<p>“I was a heavy heart to carry<br/>But he never let me down<br/>When he had me in his arms<br/>My feet never touched the ground”</p>
<p>- Heavy In Your Arms, Florence & the Machine</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>The captain of the Nightmare finds himself stranded on an uninhabited island. His only company are the birds, the lizards... and the merfolk that come to watch the stars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Water's Lullaby

He’d been stranded three days, in the aftermath of the shipwreck, before he first saw the flash of gold in the water. 

Captain Pitchiner had been, as far as he knew, the only survivor after the  _Nightmare_  wrecked in a storm. He’d clung to what remained of the foremast, and the tides had brought him to a little island that seemed empty of anything but birds and lizards. He had (mercifully) found a thin freshwater stream that came from higher up on the island, but he had not explored much inland. 

He tended a fire on the beach, hoping to signal a passing ship, and be rescued—though truth be told he didn’t have much hope of that at all. 

But if he was going to die on this island, he wasn’t going to let Death take him without a fight. 

So he worked, building himself a ramshackle little shelter, near to where the stream met the beach. He gave up wearing shoes—they filled with so much sand that they were nearly useless anyway. He tended his fire every few hours, and scouted for a decent place to hunt. The birds proved easy to catch, apparently unused to predators. The lizards were more difficult, and fishing nearly impossible. 

But for those first few days, Pitchiner did remarkably well for a man who had not had to fend for himself in years. 

And as the sun was going down behind the island on the third day, casting his camp in purple, he spotted something unfamiliar in the shallows. 

Sitting by his fire, Pitchiner stayed very still, not quite believing his eyes—but as he watched, a group of perhaps six or seven merfolk pulled themselves from the water and onto an array of rocks where the lizards sunned themselves during the day. They were giggling, it looked like, though it didn’t seem like they made a sound. Not a one of them had noticed Pitchiner or his camp. 

Like the birds, the shimmering merfolk that lounged on the rocks seemed quite used to having this island to themselves. 

Pitchiner thought at first that he was hallucinating—but that couldn’t be. He was a healthy man of strong constitution who had had plenty of food and fresh water for the last three days. Well, if not plenty, at least enough that hunger only gnawed a little at his insides. He was not hallucinating.

Then dreaming, perhaps, but when he pinched himself (he almost laughed at the cliche of it) he seemed to be quite awake. 

So, neither dreaming nor hallucinating, Pitchiner was forced to draw the conclusion that he was indeed seeing merfolk. 

Most of them had tails were some variation of green, gray, or blue. They were long and had silvery or dark gray skin and gills that flared at their ribs, 

There was one, however, who stood out from the rest. He was smaller and rounder than the others, but more significantly he was a brilliant gold. The gold merman rolled onto his belly, toying with the hair of the mermaid that lay closest to him. They gave each other toothy grins, They seemed to be waiting for something.

The gold one happened to turn his head in Pitchiner’s direction and spied the fire. He sat sharply upright, drawing the attention of the others. Pitchiner stayed frozen, staring back at seven tense and no longer giggling merfolk. 

He turned away to stoke the fire, more afraid of letting it die than what it would mean to break a staring contest with seven merfolk. When he looked back they seemed to have relaxed some, though they were still watching him warily. Perhaps if he stayed at his camp, and tried to pretend as if he wasn’t watching them back, they would stay. 

Pitchiner couldn’t quite say why, but he was afraid of making the merfolk leave. 

As the sky darkened enough for the stars to be visible, Pitchiner realized what the merfolk were waiting for.

They pointed upwards, laughing amongst themselves again, as streak after streak of silver falling stars sailed across the sky. Pitchiner laid back in the sand in awe. He had seen a few meteor showers before, but none as clear as this—with the moon dark and the sky seeming to be a banner of lights. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen—enough so that, after a time, he forgot about the merfolk only forty paces away. They had become as hushed as he.

The meteor shower lasted long into the night. As the shooting stars began to fade away, Pitchiner heard a series of splashes. He sat up and looked towards the rocks. The merfolk had gone, and he was alone again. 

***

As the days wore on, Pitchiner began keeping track of the passing time by putting a notch in a stick every sunrise. He didn’t know why he bothered to track the days, only that it gave him some peace of mind as he worked for his survival. 

He did not see the merfolk again for several days, though the meteor shower returned again three nights after the first. Pitchiner stayed awake each night watching it, though it meant he slept late into the day, and missed the cool mornings when the lizards were still sluggish enough to catch. He spent those days attempting (and often failing) to fish in the shallows. 

The only halfway decent method of fishing, since he had no net, seemed to be a makeshift pike he had ripped from a tree. The only tool he had was a knife that he always kept in his belt. 

Pitchiner had quickly given up wearing a shirt and coat. The temperatures made it unbearable, and there seemed no point in keeping to a uniform while he was the only man on the island. His back quickly darkened under the sun, making old scars stand out in sharp relief, though he only noticed them when he caught glimpses of his reflection in the water.

The only thing he was hesitant to take off was the locket he wore around his neck. Even though the sun made the chain burn against his skin, and the picture had been blurred by salt water from the wreck, Pitchiner was reluctant to let it out of sight. 

It had the only picture of his daughter he now possessed. 

Pitchiner thought of her often—had she heard by now that his ship had gone down? Impossible, no one would know they were missing yet. Would they? Perhaps if there had been other survivors who were rescued they would. 

But they would think him dead. His little girl was good as an orphan. 

He once entertained the thought of escaping his island on a raft, but quickly dismissed it. He had nothing to tie a raft together with, and more importantly, he had no idea where he was. So far as he could tell, this was not an island that had ever been visited by people before—and he hadn’t the slightest notion how far away the closest land might be. Or in what direction. 

So here he was, as the one thing he hated most: helpless. 

***

The merfolk came back nearly two weeks after the meteor shower. Pitchiner knew he was growing a rather unflattering beard, and was beginning to look worse for the wear. He’d discovered that the hair on his chin was nearly peppery. When he caught glimpses of his face he realized that he looked old—and he didn’t know why it bothered him so much when his only company were the birds and lizards he hunted.

And, upon occasion, the merfolk. 

When he saw them the second time it was still broad daylight, just a few hours after noon. He was plucking feathers from one of the birds he’d killed, kicking them into a shallow pit in the sand. He didn’t like stray feathers littering his little camp. 

He heard them laughing before he saw them. 

It was only four this time, but the fat little gold one was there. They were playing around the rocks, like kids at a game of tag. Pitchiner smiled a little to see them again, staying put as he pulled feathers. Plucking was his least favorite chore, and if it weren’t that he had little else to do he would have given up on the idea all together.

When he glanced up at the second time, the gold one was waving at him. Pitchiner blinked in surprise, trying to be sure he wasn’t imagining it. 

But no, the gold one was definitely waving at him, with a friendly smile. Pitchiner hesitantly raised his hand and waved back. The gold merman smiled and ducked beneath the waves, and was gone. 

***

After his first month on the island, Pitchiner finally attempted to shave. If it was possible, he made an even more unfortunate sight afterwards than he had before. 

With no mirror at hand other than what little still water the island offered, he had missed several patches and left a myriad of stinging cuts on his face. He was glad there was no one around to see him, since he had always been careful to keep a reputation as a clean-cut man. 

He didn’t even bother to think about the weed patch that his hair had become, beyond hacking some of it back so that he could still see without it getting in the way. 

He tried to avoid his reflection.

He thought bitterly of his other officers on the  _Nightmare,_ who would have teased him for his vanity. Had any of them survived? Were they on other islands, just out of view of the horizon?

He was fishing in the shallows one morning when a huge school of fish was suddenly around his ankles. Hardly daring to question his luck, Pitchiner stabbed his pike into the water and tossed the fish he’d speared onto the shore, going back for another, and then another. He’d caught maybe five fish before he looked up and saw the source of his good fortune. 

The merfolk giggled at him, the gold one grinning. Six of them, he thought, two of which he didn’t recognize. There must have been a whole pod of them living somewhere nearby. Pitchiner smiled back, and shouted thank you. He didn’t know if they understood, but he thought they did.

When he left the water with his half a dozen or so fish, the merfolk went back to playing. They stayed playing while he gutted and cut the heads and fins off of his fish, and stayed while he cooked (or, more accurately, burned) them over the fire. They even stayed while he ate. 

They seemed to be watching him, though Pitchiner couldn’t imagine why. He had to be the saddest sight any of them had seen since he arrived. 

When he had finished eating what he could eat, and wrapping in leaves what he would eat the next morning, he heard a clear, song-like note. He turned, to find all the merfolk watching him from the water. The gold one opened his mouth and let out the same song sound, smiling and beckoning to Pitchiner.

Pitchiner hesitated. “You aren’t planning to drown me, are you?" 

They must have understood what he said, or at least the gold one did, because he laughed, and shook his head, still beckoning to him. The others seemed to be getting bored with his reluctance, and were chasing each other out to deeper water, diving below the surface where he couldn’t see them and then spiraling out into the air, arching their backs and spreading their arms as they came back down to meet the water. 

Pitchiner walked up to the water’s edge, watching them, still hesitant. The gold one slid up to the shore, putting his elbows in the sand and waiting. 

Well, what did it matter if a merman drowned him? It wasn’t as if there was anyone who would find him here. 

He pulled off his trousers, leaving them folded on the beach, and tucking his locket into the folds. He didn’t fail to notice the gold merman studying his naked body with interest, and plunged into the water. 

The gold merman peeled away from the shore. Pitchiner had prided himself on being a good swimmer, but the merfolk swam circles around him, laughing and occasionally pulling at his legs, which they seemed to both find fascinating and hilarious. Or perhaps it was just how poor a swimmer he seemed in comparison to them that they found so funny. 

They didn’t try to drown him. 

The gold one seemed to take the most interest in him, at one point skimming just over Pitchiner’s back as he struggled to watch them under the water.

They were beautiful. Their songs echoed through the water. 

The gold one hung close, and when Pitchiner was busy watching the others, he pulled Koz’s head around and kissed him. Pitchiner’s eyes flew open, and he had no real response but to hang there in the water. 

The gold merman grinned at him when he pulled back, and spiraled off into the water to join the others. Pitchiner stared after him for a moment, and then swam to the surface. 

He was sitting on the rocks, drying in the sun, when the gold one swam back up to him. The others seemed to have left, but the gold merman was perfectly content to lay next to Pitchiner. He noticed the cuts on Pitchiner’s face and caught the man’s chin in his hand, frowning at him. 

"I don’t suppose you have a name?" Pitchiner didn’t really expect an answer to the question, particularly when the merman’s brow furrowed. After a moment, he pointed to the beach below. 

"What, Sandy?" Pitchiner asked, not quite believing it. 

The merman nodded enthusiastically, smiling. Up close, Pitchiner could see that he was covered in freckles, just a slight orange against his golden skin. He found himself idly wondering how many shapes he could trace on those freckles, how long it would take to count them. He shook his head, trying to clear those thoughts. 

Sandy tapped on his leg, and looked at Pitchiner quizzically. “Pitchiner," he said, “Kozmotis Pitchiner. That’s my name." 

Sandy nodded. He laid his chin on his arms, tail flopping idly behind him. Pitchiner looped his arms around his knees, watching the water. “I was captain of a ship. We went down in a storm."

Sandy turned his head to listen, and Pitchiner found the entire story pouring out of him. He told Sandy about the wreck, and about how he came on what was left of the foremast, and swam out to the island when he saw it. He told Sandy about his daughter back home, and how he was almost certainly to be believed dead by now. 

He didn’t really know why he talked, except that he had no one else to tell the story to. At least one person would know what had happened to him. 

Pitchiner stretched his legs out, sighing. He’d run out of things to say. 

Sandy shifted and laid his head against Pitchiner’s arm. Pitchiner let him stay there, glad for the company. 

***

The longer he stayed on the island the less real his life before seemed. Perhaps he had never been a captain, perhaps nothing existed beyond the horizon. 

Except the locket, and his daughter. He kept believing for her. 

The merfolk’s visits were irregular, but Sandy was always there. Pitchiner was beginning to suspect that Sandy was bringing them to keep him company, more than that they came on their own. 

He began to recognize their faces, and figure out their names. They could sing but it seemed they couldn’t really speak, so it took much guessing and error to figure out that one was named Shell and another Song and yet another Tide. But he learned, and he smiled when he saw them. 

Sandy, in particular. 

Sometimes Sandy came by himself, which suited Pitchiner just fine. He grew more comfortable kissing Sandy, in the water and out of it, and often as not found himself sitting on the rocks, head tucked into Sandy’s damp hair. He traced patterns in Sandy’s freckles, and kissed them into constellations.

Sandy, he found, gave him some tangible reason to stay alive. 

***

Pitchiner stopped keeping track of the days. Time seemed less and less meaningful. 

He had stopped counting somewhere around six months. Over a hundred and eighty days where he’d tended a fire, slept under a shelter that leaked when it rained, ate little else but fish and birds and lizards and what fruit grew on the island. He’d given up any slim hope of being rescued, of ever seeing his daughter again. 

Sandy found him grieving. 

He was sitting on the rocks, staring out at the horizon, and nothing Sandy could do could coax a single word out of him. So Sandy laid his head on Pitchiner’s side, and sat with him, not saying anything for a great long while. 

That was the first night that he really heard Sandy sing. 

He had heard single notes before, from Sandy, but little else. That night, as he leaned back against the merman, Sandy sang for him. 

It was an almost unearthly sound, like something hollow and ringing, something that could barely be called a song.

But it was beautiful. 

And it made his heart feel just a little less heavy. 

***

 Pitch hadn’t the slightest idea how long he had been on the island. He didn’t know when he had ceased to care.

Somewhere his daughter was getting older. 

Somewhere his daughter thought him dead.

But it didn’t feel real. It felt like a dream he’d woken from when the ship wrecked and brought him here. Perhaps the island itself was a dream that he had yet to wake up from.

Against his side, Sandy shifted and yawned. 

Perhaps he didn’t want to wake from it. 

Sandy had taken to spending some nights with Pitch. Not all of them, or even that many, really, but Pitch liked it when he stayed the night. 

He swam with Sandy nearly every day now. He’d gotten better at it, so the merfolk laughed at him a little less. 

He still tended to the fire, but he was lazy about it now. It had nearly gone out more times than he dared think about. 

The fire had been the center of his life since the  _Nightmare_ wrecked.

He didn’t want to think about what it would mean if he let it go out. 

***

Sandy notices when Pitch stops eating. 

He notices when he seems disinterested in everything but the swims, when Pitch spends hours sitting in one place, staring at the sea like it haunts him. 

He notices when the fire goes out. 

He doesn’t need to ask why when Pitch asks Sandy to swim out with him, farther than Sandy has ever dared go with Pitch before. Sandy knows it isn’t a matter of confidence in his swimming ability.

Pitch means to not make it back. 

***

Pitch is honestly surprised when Sandy doesn’t argue. He had almost forgotten that Sandy isn’t really human, isn’t really like anyone he’d ever known before. 

He’d forgotten that he was a man very far from home. 

***

The water seems colder than usual, and Pitch isn’t sure why. He wonders if that means something, or if he’s just imagining things. 

Sandy’s face is unreadable, but he sticks close to Pitch, and gives him a very long kiss before they push out into deeper water. He hasn’t made a sound since Pitch asked him.

If there are other merfolk nearby, Pitch doesn’t see them. The water feels empty without them, and tomb-like without their songs. 

Sandy usually outswims Pitch, only circling back to make sure he’s still there—but not now. Now Sandy keeps pace with Pitch, and doesn’t look at him, except to occasionally reach out and brush a hand against his cheek or arm. 

Pitch doesn’t stop until the island seems impossibly far away. His entire body aches, and his lungs are burning. Sandy presses close, tucking his head under Pitch’s chin one last time. Pitch wraps his arms tight around Sandy. “Thank you."

***

Drowning doesn’t feel like he expects it to, though to be honest, Pitch doesn’t really know what he expected.

Sandy’s come down under the water with him, as if to see for himself. He looks sad, and when he starts to sing under the water, Pitch knows one thing absolutely for certain.

He does not want to die. 

_Sandy! Sandy, please, help, I’ve changed my mind_

_Sandy_

_Sandy…_

***

It doesn’t hurt like an injury, it hurts like holy fire—like being reborn. When Sandy realizes what’s going on and presses his mouth tight over Pitch’s, it feels like having life breathed into him. 

 Sandy grips his hands tight, watching first the pain, then the awe on Pitch’s face as he realizes he can breathe. As he realizes that things sound a little different, a little sharper—that now it’s not so hard, seeing under the water’s surface. He tries to say something, but all that comes out is a song. 

Pitch looks startled, pressing a hand to his throat. 

Sandy clasps his hand and  begins pulling him along, down through the water.  _Come away, your life is no longer up there._

***

The next time the stars fall over that island, there are no men on the shore. The storms have washed away any trace of a camp that was once there. Once more, the island belongs only to the birds and the lizards, and the mermaids who come there to see the sky. 

Most of the mermaids are some color of the sea—green or blue like the water around them. But two are different. 

One is smaller than the others, and gold as a coin. The other is nearly half again as long, and broader in the shoulder, with a tail as black as coal. 

Of a life before, he kept only one thing: a locket that he always wears around his neck. 


End file.
